


zelda's lament

by talkwordytome



Category: Chilling Adventures of Sabrina (TV 2018)
Genre: F/F, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, If you know, Praise Kink, Sickfic, Vaguely crack-y, Zelda Spellman Needs A Hug, Zelda Spellman is Bad at Feelings, all zelda spellman wants, but it is DEFINITELY kinky, hey remember when i said this fic wasn't explicitly kinky, is for a beautiful woman, like this fic is not explicitly kinky at all, much like myself, on her feverish brow, sorry not sorry!!!!!!!, to rest her cool hands, well it sure is now!!!!!!!, while she tells her what a good girl she is, ya feel me, you know
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-13
Updated: 2020-04-15
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:07:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23624353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/talkwordytome/pseuds/talkwordytome
Summary: In which is itreallysuch a stretch to assume that someone with as much of a praise kink as Zelda Spellman would also have a--for lack of terminology--being-taken-care-of-kink?or, in which--much like myself--all Zelda Spellman really wants is for a beautiful woman to rest a hand on her feverish brow and tell her what a good girl she is.
Relationships: Zelda Spellman/Mary Wardwell | Madam Satan | Lilith, Zelda Spellman/Original Mary Wardwell
Comments: 21
Kudos: 101





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Title is inspired by "Adelaide's Lament" from _Guys and Dolls_! 
> 
> So after we finished playing around with this I realized I'd sort of accidentally written a funny, goofy, tender inverse to _Sharp Objects_???? Which is a book I LOVE but I cannot start this fic without saying that Munchausen/Munchausen by proxy are both **_VERY REALLY MENTAL ILLNESSES AND IN NO WAY IS THIS FIC MEANT TO IMPLY THAT ZELDA OR MARY HAVE EITHER_**. This is just them doing some kink-light, damsel in distress role play and having an absolute time.
> 
>   
> Shout-out, as ever, to my beautiful beta & girlfriend & best friend cjscullyjanewaygay!

The first time, Zelda is actually, properly sick. 

Mary drives to the Spellman house to pick Zelda up for a date they’ve had scheduled for over a week, and Hilda apologetically turns her away at the door. “I’m so very sorry, darling,” she says, “but Zelda’s quite ill; she’s not up to going anywhere, I’m afraid.”

“I’m not an _invalid_ , Hilda,” Mary hears Zelda snap from another room, and the witch’s voice is both decidedly irritated and audibly congested. “Is that Mary? Mary, do please come in, dear; I apologize on behalf of my sister. She seems to be laboring under the _ridiculous_ delusion that just because I have the sniffles, I am incapable of speaking for myself.”

Hilda rolls her eyes fondly, ushering Mary inside. After a moment, Zelda stalks into the foyer. Her hair is impeccably finger-waved—as always—and she’s wearing her favorite deep blue silk kimono, but under the robe she has on a very cozy and plaid flannel ensemble that Mary knows Hilda probably forced her into. Mary’s lips twitch into a small smile at the thought. Zelda is certainly the more transparently domineering Spellman sister, but Hilda does indeed have her ways. 

“I’m fine,” Zelda says crossly, though Mary has to agree with Hilda: she doesn’t _look_ fine at all. Zelda is tired and her eyes are half-lidded, with a bright pink nose and a pallor that betray just how dreadful she must be feeling.

“Zelda,” Mary says cautiously, “if you’re sick—”

“I assure you that I am not,” Zelda says, though her own body contradicts immediately: she sneezes, rather loudly, three times in a row.

“If you’re sick,” Mary continues gently as if she hadn’t been interrupted, “we can just as easily stay here. I don’t mind. We can watch movies and drink hot chocolate, and I can take care of you. I don’t know about you, but to me that actually sounds lovely.”

Zelda blinks at her. “I— _you’ll_ take care of _me_?” she asks.

Mary’s brow furrows. “Of course I will, silly girl,” she says. “You’re not feeling well, and that’s what you do when someone you love isn’t feeling well.”

Zelda squints. “You’ll bring me tea when I ask for it?” she asks, disbelieving. 

Mary laughs. “I will, among plenty of other things,” she says.

Hilda has been watching this entire exchange play out with great interest. “Well, Zelds,” she says, smiling widely at Mary, “it looks like Mary is more than capable of taking it from here. I’m going to Dr. Cee’s for a visit, if you don’t mind.”

Zelda rolls her eyes at the mere mention of her sister’s fiance, but nonetheless waves her away. Once Hilda has gone, Mary and Zelda comfortably ensconce themselves within the Spellman parlor, cuddling together under entirely too many blankets on a chaise that is very much not built to accommodate two grown-up-sized people. They watch _His Girl Friday_ and Zelda makes a valiant, if unnecessary, effort at stifling her many sneezes and sniffles into oblivion. Eventually she gives in enough to permit Mary to bring her Hilda’s sinus balm and some fresh handkerchiefs, though she revolts when Mary idly suggests taking her temperature.

“It’s an annoying, _pointless_ little head cold, Mary,” she insists. “I’ll be right as rain in a day, two days at the absolute most.”

In spite of all her protestations, though, Mary can tell Zelda enjoys the novelty of being looked after in spite of herself. She catches Zelda smiling a soft, private sort of smile when she thinks Mary isn’t looking, and as the night wears on Zelda’s efforts to disguise how miserable she feels slowly dissipate to nothing. In fact, if Mary isn’t mistaken, it almost seems as though Zelda finds it rather fun when Mary waits on her and lovingly bosses her about, insisting that she wear a sweater instead of her silky robe to keep from getting chilled, or sternly instructing her to properly finish every last drop of herbal tea in her mug. An interesting development to be sure, Mary thinks, one that might be worth examining further at a later date.

Zelda half-leans on Mary as they walk upstairs to bed just after midnight, though Mary has a feeling it’s more theatrics than genuine exhaustion. She doesn’t at all mind; Zelda is warm and soft and sweet-smelling, and Mary feels pride bubble up within her when she realizes that Zelda is letting her see what only a very few have: a moment of genuine vulnerability.

Mary changes into the pajamas she’s taken to keeping in Zelda’s bureau and slips in under the covers beside her. She kisses Zelda’s (ever so slightly feverish?) forehead. “Good night, dear heart,” she whispers.

“Good night, Mary,” Zelda sighs, snuggling up to the brunette. “Sleep well.”

~~~

The second time is just over a month after the first. It is around 6:30 PM on a Wednesday when Zelda calls Mary at her cottage, and what she says is so unexpected that Mary briefly pulls the phone away from her ear, certain she’s misunderstood.

“Come down with the _flu_?” Mary repeats. “How? You _just_ had a cold, and I thought witches hardly ever got sick?”

And yet, here they were: Mary listening to Zelda’s tinny, stuffed up voice on the other end of the line as she patiently explains that apparently witches _did_ sometimes, in fact, suffer through clusters of illness. 

“I’m coming over,” Mary says decisively, trying not to let her considerable worry come through in her voice. 

She’s expecting Zelda to put on a show of protesting and declare herself in no need of “coddling,” but Zelda agrees without a second of hesitation, which only makes Mary more concerned. 

She arrives at the Spellman home not long after, carrying a tote bag that contains an extra large takeaway of Zelda’s favorite egg drop soup, a fresh box of lotion-infused tissues, and a little tub of mentholated vapor-rub. “Zelda?” Mary calls out, only barely in the front door but already made anxious by the lack of a bustling Hilda or a lounging Ambrose.

“I’m up here,” Zelda calls back from her bedroom, followed by a bevvy of coughs. Mary rushes upstairs, and is understandably unnerved by the sight that awaits her.

Zelda truly does have the flu. If the thickness of her voice over the phone hadn’t been proof enough, the veritable mountain of crumpled tissues surrounding her certainly makes for compelling evidence. Between the flush of Zelda’s cheeks and the cocoon of blankets she’s swaddled herself up in even though it’s quite warm in the room already, there really is no denying it. 

The question of how she got the flu in the first place remains very conspicuously unanswered. Mary is quite certain she’d heard Zelda say before that witches typically don’t get sick twice in the same decade, let alone twice in the span of six weeks. Mary wants to inquire more about it, she really does, but… oh, Zelda looks so miserable, and she supposes that her questions regarding witch biology can wait until Zelda has had a bit of her soup.  


The witch in question’s moss-colored eyes are half-lidded, but fill with undisguised delight when she sees Mary appear in the doorway. “You came,” she croaks, then blows her nose for nearly thirty full seconds.

“Of course I did,” Mary says, setting her tote down on the floor and immediately placing her hand on Zelda’s forehead. “You’re burning up with fever.”

Zelda hums her agreement.“I thought I might be,” she says mournfully, though she perks up when she notices Mary’s bag. “Did you bring me something?”

Mary nods and starts unpacking. “Lots of goodies to help you feel better,” Mary confirms. “But only if you’ll be a very good girl and let me play nurse,” she adds, teasing.

Zelda smiles in such a way that for a split second she looks almost… _smug_? Mary thinks, _or at the very least self-satisfied_. But it must have been a trick of the light, because as quick as Mary can blink Zelda looks sleepy and grateful again.

“Whatever you say, Mary,” she promises, then takes a long, indulgent slurp of egg drop soup.

~~~

The third time it’s a sprained ankle, something about missing a step on an Academy staircase. Then it’s a throat so sore Zelda can hardly speak. There is an upset tummy, an earache, a sinus infection, then a head cold, followed by a chest cold, followed by yet _another_ head cold, and a migraine so debilitating that it renders Zelda unable to do anything besides lie in bed with the lights out and a cool compress pressed to her eyes. Nothing terribly serious, and nothing that takes her out of commission for more than a couple of days, but so many instances of it that they develop a comfortable routine: Zelda calls, Mary comes; Zelda pouts, Mary pets.

Mary is always there, bringing treats and medicine and tender ministrations. She occasionally, carefully, presses Zelda for explanations— _why do you think you’ve been sick so often lately? is it something magical? do we need to seek help?_ —but Zelda never seems to have an explanation to give. She sometimes half-heartedly blames it on the Academy—so many teenagers in one place is bound to be an _incubus of viral plague_ , she insists—but she typically just shrugs in a most un-Zelda-like manner. 

“I’ve no idea, Mary,” she says languidly. “Anyway, _I’m_ not concerned about it, so please don’t worry _your_ sweet little head. I’m fine. I’m always fine.”

But Mary can’t help it; she worries all the same.

~~~

One night, Mary and Zelda are curled up on the chaise in the Spellmans’ parlor. Zelda is getting over a particularly stubborn cold, and she’s resting with her head in Mary’s lap while Mary plays with her hair. Her nose is bright red and her eyes are ringed with purple shadows, but she seems perfectly content. In fact, other than that very first illness, Zelda has been oddly cheery through the last few months’ various ordeals. She accepts Mary’s help and care with nary a word of complaint; indeed, she seems rather taken in by all the attention being given to her. And while there is undeniably a small part of Mary that’s charmed by this sweeter, softer side of her Zelda, she is increasingly convinced that something is very, very wrong.

“Zelda,” Mary says softly as she runs her hands through her reddish-gold curls.

“Hmm?” She barely tips her face up, stretching like a cat after a nap in the sun. 

“You’ve been sick quite a lot lately,” Mary says.

Zelda murmurs her agreement. “Yes,” she says drowsily, blowing her nose, “it’s been absolutely _dreadful_ , hasn’t it?”

There’s an unmistakable note of relish in the way she pronounces _dreadful_ that gives Mary pause. It occurs to her that she hasn’t heard a word of concern from Hilda during all this, and surely Hilda would’ve noticed Zelda falling ill this often. In fact, Zelda’s maladies always seem to coincide with Hilda being especially busy or away with Dr. Cee. Mary frowns.

“Zelda?” Mary says again. “Where do you think you picked up this cold?”

Zelda responds with a sound that could very charitably be described as, “I don’t know.” It’s not convincing. In fact, it makes Mary suspicious that Zelda knows _exactly_ where she got her cold and isn’t particularly inclined to share.

“Zelda,” Mary says, and then again more firmly, her hand stilling in her lover’s hair, “ _Zelda_.” 

Zelda stares resolutely up at the ceiling. “I liked it,” She finally mutters, blushing furiously.

“You what?”

“I _liked_ it,” Zelda says, picking at a loose thread on her afghan, “when you… when you looked after me that one night, months ago, when I was sick.”

“Sorry,” Mary says, frowning, “I just… don’t understand what that has to do with how you’ve been getting sick, Zelds? It’s not as though you can just _will_ yourself to have a cold or a sore throat or…”

Zelda blushes an impossibly deeper red. Mary trails off in the middle of her sentence, and she’s surprised that a cartoon light bulb doesn’t pop to life above her head with the force of her sudden realization. “You’re a _witch_ ,” Mary says, amused and exasperated and hopelessly, irrevocably smitten, all at once. She sighs, massaging her temples and trying in vain not to chuckle. 

“Zelda, have you been _bewitching_ yourself sick? This whole time?”

“The first cold was genuine, and so was the sprained ankle; I really did trip on the stairs at the Academy,” Zelda says sheepishly, “but… yes, to the rest of it.” She tips back her head so that she’s looking up at Mary. “Are you very angry?” she whispers.

Mary huffs. “No,” she says, kissing Zelda on the crown of her head. “I’m a bit _annoyed_ that I wasted so much energy worrying over absolutely nothing.” 

“You were worried?” Zelda asks.

“Don’t sound so pleased about it,” Mary fusses gently. “Of course I was worried, Zelds. You’d never been sick as long as I’d known you, and then suddenly you couldn’t stop catching colds and spraining joints.” 

Mary drags a protesting Zelda up into a sitting position so she can look her in the eye. “You know, Zelda, if you ever feel like you’re especially needing attention or… or even just to be the less dominant partner for a change, for _any_ reason, all you have to do is ask,” she says earnestly. “You don’t need to invent some sort of malady; I’m always happy to give you all the love in the world.”

Mary can see the effort it costs Zelda to meet her gaze. “I sometimes very much enjoy being… the submissor, being taken care of and dictated to, but I very much don’t like,” she says quietly, “asking for things.”

“I know you don’t,” Mary soothes, “but are you willing to give it a try every now and again? For me?”

Zelda sniffles and presses her hot face to Mary’s chest. “I suppose,” she sighs, as though she’s being quite magnanimous.

“Good girl. What I want to know now is this: how have you been doing it?” Mary asks, resuming her hair playing, as Zelda has been known to be vicious if that particular motion is put to an end without just cause.

“Oh, there are spells and incantations for this sort of thing,” Zelda says dismissively. “It’s not difficult.”

“Can you reverse it at will?” Mary asks.

Zelda sniffs irritably, insulted. “Of course I can,” she says. “What a question. _Really_ , Mary. As if I’d ever cast a self-afflicting spell when I didn’t know its countercurse.”

“Well,” Mary says, “shouldn’t you maybe reverse it now? I know I hate it when I can’t breathe through my nose.”

Zelda sneaks a look at Mary that seems almost bashful. It is an utterly alien emotion on the Spellman matriarch’s face, and it is thoroughly adorable. “I could,” she says slowly, “but could we...pretend I’m still ill until the morning?”

Mary grins. “Zelda,” she says, “are you telling me that you need a bit of extra attention, perhaps a nice massage?”

Zelda smirks, pressing her thighs together so imperceptibly that anyone but Mary would’ve missed the gesture entirely. “I might be,” she allows, just before her expression shifts, and she aims a pathetic and brilliantly well-timed sneeze into her elbow. She pouts at Mary. “While I reverse it, would you be so kind as to fetch me some more tea? With some cream?”

“ _With some cream_ ,” Mary teases, imitating Zelda’s needy inflection. “Yes, precious. With lots and lots of cream. How about a splash of bourbon, too?” She winks mischievously. 

“Yes please,” Zelda bats her lashes, failing to hide a smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter is going to explore this dynamic further; my plan is for it to be a series of little moments in time, all just about a paragraph, maybe two.
> 
> The last two chapters of "not to me. not if it's you." are forthcoming! Pinky promise.
> 
> I also want to maybe write another fic for my pre-canon series, but we shall see. My school has started e-learning in earnest so I'm a bit busier than I've been for the last three weeks.
> 
> Regrettably I cannot take credit for the magnefique turn of phrase "an incubus of viral plague". The credit goes to the brilliant Aline Brosh McKenna, who adapted the screenplay for the seminal classic _The Devil Wears Prada_.
> 
> The "with some cream" moment is a reference to one of my favorite Hilda & Zelda interactions in all of CAOS.


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Zelda and Mary explore the sexy side of Zelda's little proclivity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> enjoy ;) I sure did.

Eventually, it turns into their own strange and delightful little game. As fiercely independent as Zelda Spellman may seem, it doesn’t take Mary long to figure out that she enjoys being rescued and led; it takes Mary even _less_ time to realize that she enjoys doing the rescuing and leading. It’s a flirtatious novelty for both of them, a complete reversal of what they previously understood their respective roles in the relationship to be, and more than anything else it’s simply _fun_.

~~~

Occasionally, minor illness or injury does happen organically. There is the time that Zelda gets caught in the crosshairs of two dueling students and finds herself the unfortunate and unintended victim of an especially nasty laryngitis curse. She’s forced to leave for the remainder of the afternoon—as not even _she_ is fearsome enough to manage a class of adolescent witches and warlocks without her powers of speech—and she purloins Sabrina’s cell phone to send a text to Mary: _lost voice; please come over? was sent home from work_.

Mary rushes over to the Spellman house as soon as Baxter High’s last bell rings. She finds Zelda curled morosely on the parlor chaise, watching one of Greta Garbo’s silent films. She has a little chalkboard, most likely provided by Hilda, as she holds it up to Mary words appear: the movie seemed fitting, all things considered.

_Thank goodness she hasn’t also lost her flair for the dramatic_ , Mary thinks. “How did you lose your voice, sweet?” she asks, settling next to Zelda and checking her throat for swollen glands. “Is it tonsillitis again?”

Zelda shakes her head, opens her mouth and makes a pathetic croaking noise. Mary points back at the chalkboard and Zelda rolls her eyes but obliges. On the chalkboard: _Stupid thing. Had to break up a duel between two students; got hit by a bloody laryngitis curse. I’ve half a mind to expel them, but a week of detentions will do just as well, I suppose. It’ll wear off by morning_.

“Does it hurt?” Mary asks. 

Zelda nods, her face somber but her eyes bright. _Very sore, especially when I swallow. Hilda made soup, but even that’s a bit too much_. 

Mary wraps a damp, warm washcloth dipped in echinacea and thyme oils around Zelda’s throat and makes her an infusion of marshmallow root, honey, and lemon water, both tricks she’d learned from Hilda. “Go on, drink up,” she says, “and then it’s straight to bed with you; your poor sweet throat needs its rest.”

Zelda takes a sip of tea and holds up the chalkboard. _Surely I deserve a treat if I’m very good and finish my tea without trying to say even a word, don’t I?_

Mary manages to keep her mouth in a very serious line, though the sparkle in her eyes is a dead giveaway. “Well,” she says, “perhaps we can try and think of something.”

~~~

There is also the time that Zelda and Mary find themselves caught in a rainstorm as they’re walking home from a (Mary suggested) visit to Dr. Cee’s bookstore. Mary doesn’t mind the rain at all—indeed, she finds the whole situation terribly romantic—but Zelda fares about as well as a bad-tempered cat. She scowls and mewls and wraps her arms tightly around her frame the whole way back, insisting that she’s mere _inches_ away from succumbing to hypothermia.

“I do _so_ despise the rain,” Zelda says, clinging close to Mary, water droplets dripping down her eyelashes and along the bridge of her nose. 

“We’ll make you a lovely hot toddy as soon as we’re back,” Mary says reassuringly. “Promise.”

“I believe _several_ hot toddies may be in order,” Zelda says despairingly, up to her ankles in a puddle. “Oh, this is absolute misery; I can’t feel any of my limbs. And my poor shoes. These are my favorite casual heels, and they’ll be ruined!” 

“You’re shivering,” Mary frets, rubbing Zelda’s arms in an attempt to warm her. “We’ll be home quick as bunnies and then we’ll get you set right. And I’m sure you can magically mend the shoes, sweetheart.”

“Yes,” Zelda says sadly, “but they won’t be the same.”

Once they’re back at the Spellmans’, Zelda casts a warming charm on the fluffiest pair of towels she can find and then they raid Hilda’s drawers for the soft, flannel pyjamas Zelda so adamantly insists she loathes. Mary sets a fire in the hearth and fixes the much-sought-after hot toddies (with an extra finger of whisky in Zelda’s, naturally). They cuddle up on the chaise under what might be every single blanket in the house. By the time it’s all said and done Mary is perfectly comfortable again, but Zelda is still shivery, and a bit of sniffling has joined the mix.

“Did you get a chill, love?” Mary asks, frowning. “You’re very pale.”

“I’m always pale. I’m sure I’ll be fine, Mary,” Zelda says, putting on such an exaggeratedly brave face that Mary can barely reign in the giggles threatening to burst free from her mouth. “Though it would be a terrible shame if I did catch cold. You know how _delicate_ I can be,” she adds with a little shrug.

“Yes, indeed I do,” Mary says, brushing a lock of damp hair from Zelda’s face. “I think,” Mary continues, “that a hot bath is _precisely_ the cure the doctor ordered.”

“I’m inclined to agree,” Zelda says, a demure little smile on her face. “Did the good doctor mention anything about whether this bath must be taken alone?”

“Do you know what?” Mary says. “I have it on _record_ that the best cure for a chill is taking a bath with someone else. Shared body heat, and all that.”

Zelda leans close to Mary’s ear. “Are there any other instructions the doctor left us to follow?” she murmurs.

Mary is very pleased with herself when she manages not to blush. “That depends,” she whispers, “entirely on how you’re feeling.”

~~~

Then there are the instances that Zelda claims are completely unintentional, mere coincidences, and Mary supposes they very easily _could_ be, though they also very easily could _not_ be.

Like the time Zelda comes over to Mary’s one evening with swollen, streaming eyes and hives broken out all over the fair skin of her neck, chest, and forearms. She’s sniffling into a handkerchief but there’s no wheeze to her breath, so whatever she’s reacting to isn’t deadly, but it’s enough to elicit a surprised gasp from Mary.

“Zelda!” Mary exclaims, pulling her inside. “What’s _happened_ to you?”

“Goldenrod,” Zelda says miserably, her voice thick. “It was an ingredient for a draught during beginning bubbling today and I’m spectacularly allergic.” 

“Why didn’t you take a bath, you silly thing?” Mary tuts, brushing at Zelda’s clothes. “You’re probably still covered in pollen.”

Zelda’s green eyes go impossibly wide. “I wanted to hurry over and see you, Mary,” she says.

Mary, tightly wrapped as she is around Zelda’s little finger, can only roll her eyes in response. “Lie down on the sofa,” she says, fond and exasperated in turns. “I have to take the cookies I’m baking out of the oven first, but I’ll be back in a moment, alright?”

Zelda leans back on the sofa, far more comfortable than she has any right to be, and smiles beatifically. “Whatever you say, dear.”

“Yes, yes,” Mary says, “you are indeed absolutely adorable, Zelds. No need to rub it in.”

“I’ve absolutely no idea what you’re talking about, Mary,” Zelda says, looking every inch the unholy cherub that she is.

Mary returns with a cool compress and a bottle of aloe vera. “This will help with your eyes,” Mary says, draping the compress over the top of Zelda’s face, “and I’ll apply the aloe to the hives. Unless, of course,” she says cheekily, “you’d like to do it yourself?”

“Absolutely not,” Zelda says, and her lips twitch as if it is all she can do not to smile. 

Zelda gasps softly when the cold gel makes contact with her clavicle. “Oh,” she says, moaning indulgently, “that feels positively hell-sent.”

Mary is only able to provide a vague, “Mmhm,” as a response, given that she’s putting nearly all her effort into _not_ thinking about other situations where she might hear Zelda moan in that way. It doesn’t help a bit that she knows how thoroughly Zelda is enjoying this. 

“You know,” Zelda says, peeling the compress off one eye and smiling slyly, “I once read somewhere that sex helps quite a bit when one is having an allergic response. Something to do with hormones constricting blood vessels and endorphins boosting the healing, I believe it was.”

“How very interesting,” Mary says, focusing much harder on applying the aloe than what is probably strictly necessary.

“Do you care at all to test that theory?” Zelda asks innocently.  


“If it would truly make you feel better,” Mary says, pretending to consider it, “I imagine _something_ could be arranged.”

~~~

Of course, Zelda is still Zelda, and there are those moments—when she feels lonely, or needy, or often simply _bored_ —and she decides to take matters into her own hands.

The second Zelda arrives at the cottage—all sniffles and weak coughs and pretty Victorian paleness—Mary knows it’s self-inflicted; Zelda never looks quite so elated with herself when she’s fallen ill on accident, nor quite so magnetic. And Mary knows she should be at least a little annoyed—she’s making a nice dinner, and they have plans to see a movie afterwards—so why is it that all she wants to do now is wrap Zelda up in a blanket and ravish her until neither of them can see straight?

Mary briefly shakes her head, as if clearing the lustful impulses. “Zelda,” she says, her tone dripping with sympathy, “are you sick?”

“Tremendously,” Zelda confirms, nestling herself happily into Mary’s embrace. 

“How on Earth did that happen, hmm?” Mary asks, smiling knowingly.

Zelda is the very picture of serene innocence. “I’m not sure I understand what you mean, Mary,” she says, corners of her mouth twitching. “I might have picked it up anywhere; they call it the _common cold_ for a reason.” 

_There is nothing common about you,_ Mary thinks, and their movie tickets are already forgotten. 

She tucks Zelda under a cozy fleece blanket on her sofa and brings her a fresh box of tissues. Zelda takes one and blows her nose with an air of great satisfaction. “Might I ask for a lovely warm bowl of soup?” she asks. “And perhaps then some ice cream for my throat?”

Mary sits down on the edge of the sofa and primly crosses her legs. “I’m not certain you should have dessert until you’ve taken your medicine like a good girl,” she says, and it takes all of her courage to not break into laughter at the silliness of it all. 

“Medicine?” Zelda says, eyebrows raised, and Mary nods. The hungry look on the witch’s face gives her plenty of courage to go on.  


“Lots and lots of it,” Mary says. “We don’t want you to get pneumonia, now do we?”

“I suppose not,” Zelda says, “though I may need a bit of convincing. I’m a _very_ obstinate patient, and medicine doesn’t sound like much fun at all.”

“What sort of convincing,” Mary breathes, leaning closer into Zelda, “did you have in mind?”

Zelda undoes the first three buttons on her blouse. “Allow me,” she purrs, “to show you.” She places Mary’s hand on her chest.

~~~

One of these afternoons is particularly memorable.

Mary is in a fantastically foul mood: her students were extraordinarily irascible all day, and to top it off the air conditioning in her office was broken. She arrives home frustrated and sweaty, ready to snap at anyone who dares to so much as look at her. She’s changed out of her work clothes and into one of her favorite silky nightgowns and is just settling in with a large glass of wine and a romance novel when someone knocks on her door. 

“Oh, _honestly_ ,” Mary grumbles, but once the door is open her tune changes immediately. 

Zelda is standing on her front porch, cradling her right wrist and pouting.

“Oh, poor baby,” Mary coos, ushering her in. “What happened to your sweet wrist?”

“I strained it when I was moving a box in my office,” Zelda says forlornly. “It aches something _awful_.” 

“Let me see,” Mary says, examining the afflicted limb carefully. “Does this hurt at all, darling?” She gently flexes the joint back, and Zelda winces, nodding sorrowfully.

“Stay put,” Mary instructs. “Make yourself comfy. I’ll be right back.”

When she returns she’s carrying a small lavender-scented heat pack that’s shaped like a llama and an ace bandage. She wraps Zelda’s injured wrist with great tenderness, then presses the heat pack onto it. “It might be a bit warm,” she says, “but it’ll help your muscles from getting too tight and making the strain worse.”  


They sit in a comfortable silence as Mary opens her book and begins to read. “How long will it be sore, do you think?” Zelda asks once a few minutes have passed.

“I don’t know,” Mary says absently, lost in her story. “A week, maybe two tops, so long as it hasn’t been badly sprained. Why?”

“No reason,” Zelda says in a tone that indicates that she very much has a reason. An oblivious Mary, though, too invested in the doomed love affair of the Russian count and the French courtesan, does not continue the conversation.

A few more minutes pass. Zelda clears her throat. “It’s such a terrible shame,” Zelda continues, picking up where she left off, “that it’s my dominant hand. It makes it very difficult for me to complete certain preferred… tasks.”

Mary peeks up at Zelda from over the top of her book, one brow raised. “And what tasks,” she says dryly, “might those be?”

Zelda shrugs coyly. “Oh, you know,” she says vaguely, “writing, reading, spellwork, that sort of thing...”

“Is that all, Zelds?” Mary asks, finally catching on to her lover’s myriad signals. She sets down the novel on her lap and takes a large sip of wine. 

Zelda’s mouth quirks up. “Well,” she says, “there’s one in particular I can think of, but luckily you have _quite_ a knack for helping me with it, too.” She reaches expectantly for Mary’s wine glass, which she borrows and promptly drains. 

“Do I now?” Mary asks, tilting her head. Zelda nods, her expression sparkling roguishly. 

Mary shuts her book with a _snap_. She takes the wine glass back, sets it aside, and unzips Zelda’s heavy skirt. Then, ever so slowly, she slips her hand past the band of Zelda’s underwear and finds the sweet liquid warmth of her cunt. “Is this,” she whispers, “the task you had in mind?”

Zelda whimpers, her functioning hand ghosting at the silky fabric that lies against Mary’s lower back. “It might be.”

“I’m happy to take care of you, love,” Mary begins, her fingers stilling as she meets warm green eyes. “But this is a thing that’s reserved only for very, very good girls,” Mary says seriously, massaging the bud of Zelda’s clitoris. “Are you a very, very good girl, Zelda?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Zelda moans, head tipped back in her ecstasy, exposing the beautiful marble column of her neck. Her fingers clutch desperately at Mary’s nightdress. 

“You’ll need to prove it to me,” Mary says, carefully folding them over into a prone position and inserting two fingers into Zelda until she’s writhing beneath her with need.

“Mary,” Zelda gasps, “I would like nothing more.”


End file.
